


distant stars hold my wishes for you

by Lady_Cleo



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Emotional Sex, F/M, Guilty Pleasures, Mildly Dubious Consent, My First Work in This Fandom, Objectification, Older Man/Younger Woman, Star Wars References, Stars, as in a human is given as a 'reward' for good behavior, do not copy to another site, pleasure slaves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:13:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29485824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Cleo/pseuds/Lady_Cleo
Summary: Galen Erso has been working hard for 3 years when the Empire decides to reward his diligence... in a most unexpected way.[Or the one where Daddy Mads in Space gets gifted a girl and doesn't know what to do with her]
Relationships: Galen Erso/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 1





	distant stars hold my wishes for you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Piratearicat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piratearicat/gifts).



> This was a thing I wrote a few years ago when it was still semi-relevant and never posted.  
> Then I found out the only other person who's read it was having a not-great day. So behold my weird rare gift.
> 
> Also, tiny note before we begin: there is a brief mention of the realities of young people in grown-up situations. If that's not your cup of tea, give that back button a lil tap for me and have a nice day.

Galen Erso has been working for 3 years when the Empire decides to reward his diligence.

He is escorted back to his quarters under guard as usual, given a time to be back at work the next morning, as usual. In fact, the only thing unusual about the encounter so far is that his start time - which has remained virtually unaltered for the past two years he's been 'well-behaved' - has been pushed back almost 2 hours. He's nearly always already up when his patrol comes to collect him in the mornings, so he's not sure why the extra time away from a project that needs so much completed to meet the imposed timetable has been deemed acceptable.

Normally he wouldn't question the whims of the Empire he loathes to the core of his being; one might as well expect the stars to answer you when you shout questions into their void.

But Galen has also learned that anything out of the ordinary is cause for caution. So he thinks as he hangs up his cloak and starts to peel out of his uniform. He ponders right up until the moment he walks into his bedchamber and spies something entirely out of the ordinary.

There is a girl. On his bed.

Her purple streaked hair, the thin chains at her wrists and neck, the dress that leaves very little to the imagination denote her as a pleasure slave. Unfortunately, they give no indication as to what she's doing here.

Well... apart from _**that**_.

She rises fluidly and languidly, unfolding herself from her posture and standing before him. Her skin has a glow, like she's been coated in pearl oil, and the light adds shimmers to the amethyst fall of her hair.

"Good evening, sir. My name's Nyx. I'm-"

"I know what you are. What are you doing here?"

"If you know what I am..." She breaks off, as though realizing the impertinence of what she was about to say. Eyes widening before dropping to the floor, she swallows and reaches for the straps on her very soft looking shoulders, pushing them down. The dress shivers to the floor and she stands bared to his gaze. His jaw works around furiously before his mouth opens and closes a few times without a word. 

Then he turns on his heel and walks to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

She waits for him, unsure if she should go, return herself to spare an unfavorable report... but something makes her wait. If he doesn't want her here, _he_ can do something about it. _Until then..._

She slips the dress back on and moves to the chair at his workstation, curling into a ball, elbow against the edge, laying her head on her knuckles.

And waits.

When he emerges finally, having showered and scrubbed himself raw enough to calm down, he finds she's fallen asleep in a decidedly uncomfortable looking ball in his chair. Moving her means touching her, yet waking her seems... unfair. There are faint shadows that stand out like bruises beneath her eyes, and a soft flare of paternal concern that she doesn't rest or sleep enough makes him leave her as she is. He should have her removed... but wonders if they'll know she's gone untouched, if they'll rescind their 'gift' if he doesn't take advantage of it. If she'll be removed and punished because of him.

 _If she's still here tomorrow,_ he determines as he covers her with a blanket, _she can share the bed._

As he strips for his repose, he finds himself regarding her. Studying.

He can't be sure how old she is. Younger than him, obviously; maybe within a few years of Jyn's age. It's practically indeterminate, as a life such as hers would add the maturity of understanding of the harsher and darker side of the galaxy, putting weight in eyes that should be light, adding steel to a soul that should be unencumbered by the burden of such knowledge. There have been girls as young as 12 (the age his daughter was when he was taken) and the Khyber-flare hardness in the eyes of one so young takes the breath away.

He hopes never to see it again.

All the same, he's never seen her before and doesn't know if that's because she's new or simply because he's never had cause to visit the (his mind grimaces at the term) _'stables'_ where the pleasure slaves are held for visiting dignitaries and the honored among the Imperial command. Part of him almost hopes it proves the former, that he can be a gentler recipient of such a dubious gift than most of the uniform-wearing bastards inhabiting this rock.

Reining in his useless sentiment as he slides beneath the covers, Galen tells himself the girl's story doesn't matter, that he doesn't really care. That she is nothing and anything that befalls her that is not directly by his hand is not his concern.

But he falls asleep wondering all the same.

*

For the first few weeks he doesn't do anything with her. She arrives, sometimes with his evening meal, and sleeps curled up on the chair at his workstation, or in a small ball near the foot of the bed like a pet. He doesn't talk to her, or touch her, or use her in any way.

She could be an ornamental light fixture for all the attention he pays her. 

His thoughts stray to her once or twice (a day), wondering what she does while he toils for the good of the Empire, if she's allowed to stay in his cabin or is returned each day to a cell or some other assignment, only to be brought back when his day is done.

He doesn't care. He doesn't ask. She's there when he leaves in the morning, and she's there when he goes back at night. It is all he knows and all he need know.

One particularly bad day sends him into her arms. He storms into his room over an hour early and bites his fist against a howl of frustration the instant the door _whooshes_ shut.

She's there. She approaches with caution, as though worried he might direct the mood onto her. But when he beats against the windows in impotent rage, she wraps around him from behind and merely holds him. It's soft restraint, easily cast off with little effort - but he crumbles.

He can't help it. He has not been touched with kindness, or warmth, or anything allowing a hint of human connection in so long. Once he started biting his tongue and behaving, the beatings had stopped and he's barely been touched at all. The phantom sense memory of his wife doing this exact thing when half their harvest had been lost the first year, when Jyn came down with a fever, when the chatter that the Empire might be after him had reached their little corner of the world, is enough to break the already loosened grip on his emotions.

It's a circle of comfort, an embrace to help hold him together, and with the energy to do anything but accept it drained from him, he doesn't pull away. She guides him to the bed, removing his boots and most of his outer layer so he can be at ease before laying him down, stepping away only to put the things in the closet.

In no time she's back beside him, guiding him beneath the covers and tucking them in around them as she tucks herself around him. He lets it happen. Hope can be a dangerous thing in a place like this, but he's so tired of being alone.

For a while after, all they do is sleep, and then not always together. Most nights he lies in her arms, or she lies in his, and they just hold on to each other, comforted by the contact with another. Sometimes the mere presence is enough and they drift off with miles of bed between them, not touching but content to fall asleep to the sound of someone else's breath.

The turn of a season is the only remark on how long it's been.

*

The first night it turns to something more, he cries.

They are wrapped around one another, his head against her heart and his hair tickling under her chin. She's carding her fingers through it like he's a child, and her embrace is a mother's comfort. One hand is bonded to her hip, but the fingers of his other hand toy with the filmy material at her shoulder. He eases it down, holding his breath and realizing she's holding hers as well, her fingers arrested in the metallic locks. The dress is moved enough to grant him access to her breasts, and he mouths at her nipples in lieu of a kiss. To steal the breath from her mouth seems... disloyal somehow, and unearned. 

But he can give her pleasure.

One hand skims down and gathers the hem up into a bunch at her thighs before sliding to the juncture of her legs. 

Even as he registers the petal soft skin against his callused fingertips, his mind reels over the question too long unvoiced.

Does she truly want this? Want _him_?

For the briefest of moments she tenses... then parts for him. The slickness that greets him is startling, unnervingly authentic in its testament to their cobbled connection.

Her hands, small and tentative, reach for the ties on the loose pants he sleeps in, undoing them and shoving the material over his hips. Her feet take over, skimming the sleepwear down his long legs, leaving tickling trails as the sensitive soles slide over the silvering hair that covers his lower limbs. The pants drop off the edge, impatient hands whisk the rumpled dress off to join them - and the sudden press of warm skin to every available inch almost overwhelms him.

She exerts a little force, a subtly insistent enticement for his back to meet the sheets as she drapes her body over his. Nyx's lips are warm and soft as she dots his skin with kisses, tests the corded line of his neck with her teeth, traces the line of his jaw with the tip of her nose until it docks behind his ear. His hands roam her body, teasing texture and give in soft squeezes and sweeps, turning his head from the pillow to breathe the scent of her skin. Her hands grip and shape over the muscle - bicep, shoulder, thigh - he's kept through calisthenics and (carefully monitored) sparring before slipping to wrap with playful caution around the hard length stirring to life between them.

In a flash he rolls her beneath him and runs a hand down to behind her knee (she's endearingly ticklish and it nearly ends him), guiding her leg to curl around his hip. There's a moment he's grateful of the darkness, even as he questions what he's about to do.

Then he buries himself inside her in one firm stroke, and holds there. For a shimmering moment he is alive - and it's killing him.

She is warm and soft, beneath him, around him - and nothing about this is right. She's not his wife, the scent of her sweet but strange, the body not one he's intimately familiar with. She's an Imperial pleasure slave, his reward for being a hard worker, a treat to keep him a good dog to serve his masters.

She's nothing. 

_(She's Nyx.)_

She could be something. 

_(She already is.)_

She could be taken from him tomorrow, and he hates that a part of him would miss the company.

He starts to withdraw and she tightens around him, stopping him with a hand at his nape, the curl of her leg, the flash of her eyes in the twilight, the unmistakable squeeze of a woman. The hot prickling pressure of pained tears builds behind his eyes as he thrusts back deeply, rolling his hips in a steady rhythm even as his heart breaks a little more with each push. She moves beneath him, her body a sinuous undulation, hands fluttering all over to soothe and calm and urge. The tears that fall on her breast and splash the dip of her collarbone and roll down her cheek go unremarked but not unnoticed, and she winds her other leg around him to pull him closer. Her heels settle above the curve of his backside and spur him gently until his rhythm falters at the rippling clutch of her body, and breaks off with a shudder as he spends himself within her.

He tries to hold himself away from her, to move off and scrub the experience from his skin as he should - but the ripples of pleasure and shame running up his spine sap him, and he collapses shuddering into her waiting arms. 

She holds him with a tenderness he can't know is genuine, and he mutes his sobs against her shoulder until he exhausts himself and sinks into a deep and dreamless sleep.

She lies awake instead, absently soothing the brokenhearted engineer who has managed to steal her heart, and wonders what she's doing here.

*

There are nights it is tender between them, slow and unhurried and almost painful in the delicacy and time they take with each other. There are nights it is frantic and frenzied, the raw nerve of emotion fracturing and needing distraction until it blisters with pleasure. There are even times he takes her with harsh brutality, bending her and using her with a cold sensation that borders on fury. He throws her across the bed and devours her, or guides her onto her hands and knees to take her roughly from behind as his fingers grip bruises into her flesh, or presses her back against the window, legs tight around his waist, and thrusts deep until he watches her explode against the backdrop of endless black dotted with stars.

Still, even then, he is kind. He may (or may not) know that he is loved.

She accepts him without complaint, ever yielding and knowing exactly how to react.

He works to keep her, and she fights to stay.

**Author's Note:**

> True fact: this was originally titled G.P.S. (Galen's Pleasure Slave) and I'm just glad I changed it.
> 
> So that's the thing. Hope you liked it. Comments, kudos and con crit are always appreciated.


End file.
